


Mirror, Mirror

by spookyscullyy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyscullyy/pseuds/spookyscullyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"my skin has gone from porcelain, to ivory, to steel" // shortly after her marriage, sansa finds herself contemplating her situation</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror, Mirror

_I hate him, I hate him, I hate him._ The words were like a drumbeat, pounding away at her skull until there was nothing left. Sansa Stark stood in front of the small cracked mirror in her little birds nest in the Eyrie, so unlike her grand mirror in Winterfell. In Winterfell, the mirror was bright and large, reflecting back an image as pure and full of hope as her future had been. Now though, her mirror was barely large enough to show her whole face at once. Sansa would have been more upset, if not for the fact that there was nothing even her mirror at Winterfell could show her now that she would want to see. Her face, when she forgot herself and glanced at her reflection, was like a roadmap of all the things that had gone wrong in her life since Joffrey had first laid eyes on her, so long ago. Her once bright eyes, were now dim with sadness, with every blemish on her once flawless face a reminder of the loved ones she’d lost. The four delicate lines on her forehead… Robb, Bran, Rickon, and Arya. The puffy dark moons underneath Sansa’s eyes, Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. Sansa felt as though she was wasting away, like the rest of her family. Even John Snow is gone, or near enough. No more wolves of Winterfell.

_I hate him, I hate him, I hate him._ Although the words were true, and relentless, Sansa was beginning to lose track of which him she was thinking of at the moment. Was it Tyrion Lannister, her lord husband, the Imp? The monster who would forever be her enemy, if only because of the family he was born into? The man who sometimes looked at her with such pity and – dare she say it – kindness, that lately she had found herself smiling and laughing with him in the few moments she could forget her situation? Maybe.

Or was it Tywin Lannister who commanded her fear as he commanded much of the Seven Kingdoms? This was much more likely. The man lacked even the small kindness his son sometimes exhibited, relying always on icy courtesy. Yes, Sansa could easily imagine herself sinking a blade deep into his strong chest, watching the savage light melting from his calculating eyes. Once, this thought would have worried Sansa, and she would have fought to banish it from her mind. Now though, she reveled in the escape this daydream lent her. If only she could act upon this dream, in some way avenging the countless wrongs the Lannisters had dealt her family. One stab for Robb, one for her Mother, Father, brothers and sisters. Yes, she could find it within herself to kill Tywin. Maybe the singers would write a song about her the lady wolf, to replace the damned _Rains of Castamere_.

As Shae brushed Sansa’s hair in the fashion that Sansa had taught her (the plaits much like Margaery Tyrell’s), Sansa thought of one other person who completed her drumbeat of hate. Queen Cersei. The pain of the countless betrayals by Cersei hurt the more because Sansa had once so looked up to the beautiful Queen. That day in Winterfell, she had dreamed of becoming Cersei’s daughter, wanting nothing more than to be Joffrey’s obedient and graceful queen, and to bear Cersei many grandchildren. All that gone now, along with, it seemed, Joffrey’s sanity. She blamed Cersei for much of Joffrey’s actions. It seemed to Sansa that no man was that horrible with a good mother. The Queen’s cold cruelty and cunning manipulation had ruined Sansa’s life, and she would not soon forget it.

_One day, I will become as skilled at the game as the Queen, and I shall beat her._


End file.
